


Someday

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort, Gen, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year before they go home, Combeferre makes a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday

Winter! the season of chilling nights and cups of warm wine, the flurry of icy breezes that drive men to seek warmth in cramped salons, cheerful conversation, calm fires, homes, hearths, holidays.

Enjolras did not indulge in such things.

“Enjolras.”

But he made sure to aid his companions in their travels to their own homes.

“Enjolras.”

He pulled the hat down on Combeferre’s head and tilted it so it would not disturb his glasses. He swiped the strands of stray hair and tucked them neatly inside the cap. For the glove, he pulled every single digit until it fit snuggly with Combeferre’s fingers. He adjusted Combeferre’s coat, his collar, his cravat, and the messy thick folds of his scarf. Combeferre should be comfortable. Combeferre should be warm. Combeferre should be —

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras’s hand stilled. He noticed that he was pressing the same, obstinate crease for a while now. The object of his attentions was awash with incredulity. “That will do,” Combeferre pronounced haltingly.

Enjolras’s shoulders slumped, his eyes dropped, and from somewhere deep inside his waistcoat, inside his shirt, inside his chest, was the beginning of anxiety. He carefully removed his hands from Combeferre and attempted a curt nod. “I see,” he said to the floor. He spied Combeferre’s pile of luggage and narrowed on the brown bag taut with souvenirs. They had spent weeks filling it, Combeferre often soliciting suggestions from every one they met. In the days nearing the winter holidays, Combeferre would wake up with more vigor than Enjolras had seen him in months. He was going home, away from the blustering cesspool that is Paris, from the weight of their studies, from their own company, and he seemed very eager to do so.

Enjolras heard an exasperated sigh and felt a hand pat his head. He looked up to see Combeferre bearing a resigned expression. “Someday, I will take you,” he said fondly. “Not now, but someday surely,” he said slowly, indulgingly, enunciating every word. “Would you like that, Enjolras?” Before Enjolras could inquire why he sounded like he was talking to a child, Combeferre eagerly ruffled the wispy locks of his hair. Enjolras could only close his eyes and press his lips together. He silently bore the boyish treatment; he relished it. “In the meantime, you must temper your destructive urges and keep house,” Combeferre clasped the back of Enjolras’s neck, “and do not worry for me. I will return to you.”

A hundred suns seemed to light up Enjolras’s face.The nagging tug of anxiety was retreating, and his heart set easy as his lips blossomed into a smile. “I will do my best.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work can be read as a prequel to "Homecoming".


End file.
